In His Veins
by petersgamora
Summary: She runs because he isn't what she found, and she isn't what he wanted to find. What she has found, is that the heart is a deceitful creature. So desperately wicked and a beast of its own, beasts of which they are prisoner for the time being in the vacuum of space. [AU] [Eventual Starmora]
1. Prologue

**A/N: Here I am again! With another story as promised. This is "In His Veins", my latest GotG fic. **

**Sumarry's this: Gamora, the Zehoberi princess, has taken flight to a distant star system with an escaped criminal and a talking tree. Her father hires Peter Quill, a gun for hire and infamous Ravager, to find her and bring her back unharmed. The princess is about as willing to go as Quill is to bother looking for her. He soon finds, to his eventual dismay and discomfort, that she can and ****_will_**** put up a fight. One thing he'll wish he had learned: Never love a wild thing. **

**1.) This is my first attempt at writing Yandu (because yay daddy!Yandu will be mentioned and yes, he's a prominent figure in the story) so let's hope I get this right. Also, Rocket and Groot will be in this story, so there will some epic Root as well. (Is that their name? Or is it Grocket or Rockoot?)**

**2.) This idea came to me during (my third time seeing) the scene in Peter first met Gamora, and I thought, why the hell not. **

**3.) Eventual Starmora. As much as I'd love to take Peter and Gamora and be like, "Now kiss!", I can't because my stupid logical brain says, "Ella, no. Write it so it makes sense." So, I'll do my best to keep them in character AND write them so they eventually fall head over heels because that's the way I am. **

**4.) Gamora is basically assassin!Gam except in a dress.**

**5.) Aaand I apparently have this headcanon that Peter always feels better when he's in the cockpit.**

**6.) It's 11: 01 here and I know, there are spelling errors. Please forgive me as I've got no beta. :s **

He grips the side of the bunk with bruising strength. The muscles in his neck tighten as he strains, shutting his eyes against the waves of agony licking through his veins with every beat of his heart. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple, and the world swims before his eyes. Before he can so much as wonder what the hell is happening to him, the room suddenly feels far too hot. He tears at his clothes-heavy leather coat, jet boots, shirt, all of it-and removes them all, save for his pants. Exhausted and not entirely sure why, he collapses on the bed, to remain wondering when the hell life had gotten so difficult. He becomes acutely aware of the stinging pain up high in his left arm, right below the junction of his neck and shoulder. _Some thanks I get for thinking altruistically,_ he thinks grudgingly.

In any other situation, (namely had his vision not been impaired by this mysterious illness), Peter Quill may have noticed the unnatural greenish tinge of the skin around the cut. His arm drops to his side, and he winces at the noticeable discomfort caused by the movement. He chalks it up as another stroke of bad luck, too delirious to think otherwise. All he _can_ think of is the fire searing his veins and the possibility that he's running a fever (given that his body fluctuates between periods of far too hot and freezing cold). Not to mention the fact that his head is throbbing, and his heart with all its frantic pounding feels as if someone's taken a jackhammer to his sternum. He stretches over with his good hand to rub the smooth plate of bone as if to alleviate the sensation, and when it provides no respite, reaches over his head to grab at the metal rod above and uses it as leverage to pull himself stiffly to his feet. (He figures lying in his bunk can only worsen his situation.) He slumps against the bunk for a moment as nausea overtakes him and blinks several times. (He decides the world spinning does _not_ help the nausea.)

Swaying as he struggles to put one foot in front of the other, he barely manages to cross the small space he calls a room and sags against the threshold. Pain blossoms in his shoulder, and he's fairly sure it's blood he tastes in his mouth from the effort of holding back a cry. Had he bitten his tongue? The pulsating hurt on the tip of his tongue confirms its answer, and he lets out a string of slurred curses. He stumbles out of the room; slowly, painfully, he makes his way to the cockpit in hopes of clearing his head. He passes her on his way and throws her a glance as he walks by. She meets him with an even gaze, her dark eyes unflinching. She had been sitting on a crate, but now stands with a hand at her side-ready if need by. His shoulders droop. His day could get worse, he tells himself. If it involved any confrontation with the less-than-pleased Zehoberi standing before him. He doesn't so much as wave a hand in the girl's direction when he finally moves again, continuing on his way. Her gaze follows him; he can almost feel it. He brushes the thought away once he reaches the nearest chair and flops down into it with an exhausted grunt. He tilts his head back and lets his eyes slip closed in hopes that some semblance of sleep might come. In the murky depths of semi-consciousness, dreams have yet to come to him but memories manage to serve the same purpose.

* * *

_"You want me to _what_?" He snaps at the screen. The blue-skinned Ravager on the other end of the line shouts something about a big score and can't Peter just go with it and something suspiciously close to 'bounty hunt'. "No, I got that part. Yandu, I don't do that anymore. Not after the incident with the Kree girl," he adds, raising his voice over Yondu to get his point across._

_The Centaurian, practically hopping with upset, will have none of it. "Godsdamnit, son. You don't wanna know what this'll involve. I'll tell ya now so we're square, boy, and then you gonna do it without question. Got me, Quill? Zehoberis - nasty people, I'll tell you right now. King's lost his darlin' daughter and he asked fer you specifically to 'unt her down. You have to-"_

_"Zehoberi? Intergalactic avocado species, right?" Peter yawns, reaching up to scratch the top of his head. It's days because of days like these that Peter Quill hates taking video calls from the Centaurian. The blue Ravager pulls his hand down his face in a done expression._

_"Boy, you're doing it and we're splitting the riches. You got me?"_

_"Fine, fine. If she kills me, I'll haunt your ass for the rest of eternity," Peter mopes, waving his hand to end the transmission. With the yammering Centaurian gone, he falls back into his chair and props his feet up on a stack of crates. _Zehoberi princess, huh? Shouldn't be too hard,_ he muses, letting his tired eyes slip closed as his thoughts drifted to beautiful women with emerald skin and long dark tresses. _Operative word: shouldn't.

* * *

**A/N: Uh oh! What happened to Peter? Anyone want to guess? *evil snicker* Poor, poor, Peter!**

**Sooo, here's the prologue of my new story, In His Veins. If you came to this after reading Barely Alive or Nearly Dead, then thank you and I hope you like it. If you've just stumbled across it, then I hope you've enjoyed it and will continue reading. ****On another note - Okay, I'll admit. This was abit rocky. I had to set the stage, though. So everything else will follow. Also, is it Zen-Whoberi or Zehoberi? I've seen both, so fans of the GotG comics, please do correct me if I'm wrong.**

**p.s. Expect some daddy!Yandu in the next chapter or two. I've always wanted to write that, honestly, and he and Peter are sort of a brotp for me. Is that weird?**

**p.p.s. It's me, Ella (in case some of you didn't recognize the penname change). I was myowntimelord, but am now petersgamora. **

**Lastly...Thoughts? Tell me whatever's on your mind in a review? More reviews = faster updates + more chapters. **


	2. Fear of the Cold

**A/N: Had a scary moment today where I almost lost this. My evil computer hates me and froze on me as I was writing this. Thankfully, I finished it and the marvelous TerrorInYerTub has beta'ed this chapter. Thanks a bunch, Terra. You guys have all got her to thank for the in-character Yondu here. (He'd have been a bit of a softie if not for Terra hehe). Let's see, anything else you guys need to know before reading: This chapter is the actually beginning of the story. The first update was, a teaser of sorts, but here's where it really starts. I'm patiently laying the foundation for the next events. I've made this a bit longer to last you guys the week because, yes, I'm evil and will probably post within the week after this one. **

**Without further ado, do enjoy and review! C:**

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To the untrained eye, one of the darker moons in a system long forgotten by most would remain simply that: a moon. To those with age-old memories and necessity, it is anything but. It is everything to the three figures huddled within the safety provided by one of the last standing temples to Zen-Whoberi deities remaining in the galaxy. The cold stone doors are sealed tightly against the vacuum of space and the three figures are held safely within their first, a girl, is slumped against a pock-marked wall and wraps a thick dark cloth around her shivering green form. Her long hair falls to her hips, bound in an intricate braid. Her large, dark eyes are closed and their lashes tremble as dreaming eyes flicker beneath closed lids. The second, no bigger than a small dog, is curled up at her feet. His head is nestled on top of his white-ringed tail and his furry ears twitch every now and then at the various "bumps in the night".

The third, a rough creature as large as the temple itself, lays on his side with his thick oaken appendages folded round himself. A crown of leaves sprouts from his head, and his large eyes are wide as he stares into the fire which burns before the three. The dancing flames play with their shadows, throwing the shapes against the shadows splayed over the walls. The Zen-Whoberi, deep asleep, dreams of freedom. Her feet have sought it thus far, and she has set her heart for nothing less than freedom given her by flight. The raccoon, lost in a dreamless sleep, snoozes away the darkness with only the warmth of the fire and her familiar touch for comfort. The Groot merely remains there, amazed by the sparking dance of the flame as it thrives in the midst of its altogether short life, well aware of its danger to his particular species.

For the girl, parts of her memory leak into the dreams of her subconscious and she turns fitfully, her brows furrowing slightly. _Darkness floods her mind, covering the blue skies of her dream with the pitch of night. Gratefully, stars emerge like small holes of light in the endless blackness. Then comes the Zen-Whoberi moon, gleaming softly in its rosy tones against the dark backdrop. She remembers, feels, running. The wind whips at her face and her torn garments as she tears through the clawlike branches of the shaded forest into which she runs. Her companion, the raccoon, is nestled safely in the pack on her shoulders. She remembers his perturbed cry as her foot dashes against a stone, stumbles and rolls head over heel into an unseen ditch. The raccoon growls in indignation, muttering something unintelligible and a sickening squish that tells them they'd fallen into a ravine. Thunder cracks overhead, and on instinct, she tightens her arms around the small bundle of fur for some semblance of comfort._

The intensity of the memory jerks her awake. She sits up, wiping away the cold sweat beading on her forehead. She waits a moment to open her eyes, taking in successively slow breaths to calm her rapid pulse. Then, only then, does she look about her and breathe a sigh of relief. She is no longer the hunted. She is safe, as are the Groot and the raccoon. She doesn't try to sleep in the passing of the next long hours and contents herself with watching the dying fire. The raccoon, however, remains curled up soundly asleep in her lap. With her other hand, she reaches down and absently strokes the soft fur between his ears. The embers of the puttering flame reflect in her gaze. As she stares into the whisping flames, she wonders (for the first time, in earnest) what will become of her.

* * *

He waits in the ship's hold, sitting on a dented metal crate. He rests his elbows on his knees and twiddles his thumbs with nothing better to do than wait for his boss, who happens to be a rather demanding Centaurian. He reaches into the pocket of his heavy leather coat and pulls the Walkman out of his pocket. Just as his finger hovers above the button to press it, a harsh knock echoes on the other side of the hold door. Peter hangs his head in disappointment, releasing a groan; nonetheless, he gets back on his feet and with a lazy kick to the nearby lever, opens the door. Yondu Udonta stands on the other side, in Ravager garb, his arms folded over his chest. His bronze mohawk (Peter can't help but smile at the thought; it must have a name, but he's never learned it. Also, the bronze plates look too much like a mohawk for him to call it otherwise.) glows a soft reddish hue. The arrow at his side hums softly as he steps into the hold and straightens his coat.

"Something funny, boy?" Yondu grunts in his Southern drawl. (How in seven hells does an alien pick up an accent? Peter wonders this.) The 'boy' snaps to attention with a quick shake of his head and kicks the lever again, watching the door slide back into closed position. After the creaking moan of the door locking into place, Peter sits back down and this time leans against side of the ship. He crosses his legs at the ankles and rolls his shoulders in a shrug.

"Am I laughing?" he rejoins. Yondu regards him with narrowed eyes long enough that Peter worries for his life. Mercurial as he is, the Centaurian breaks into a smile and slaps Peter's shoulder good-naturedly.

"Aven't lost that spirit yet. That's good. Yes, very good," Yondu remarks with a laugh. "So. You up for the job I message ya 'bout? Darned good pay we was promised." A pit settles in Peter's stomach at the man's words. He looks down and away from Yondu's gaze, focusing on a questionable stain in the grates under his feet.

"I'm out of it, Yondu. I don't…bad feeling and all that," he says in response. The arrow's hums become louder, and Yondu proceeds to berate him for going back on Ravager code and isn't he a man of honor and whatever happened to the appeal of promised wealth? He flinches against the man's overly loud tone but jumps to his feet, waving the man away as he walks by and paces back and forth. Peter shoves his hands in his pockets, then, wrapping his fingers around the Walkman. He's done all the hard thinking beforehand. What else could have possibly killed the time waiting for Yondu?

In that time, he had analyzed what the hell'd made him so uneasy about the job. A year ago, Peter Jason Quill would have leapt at the opportunity. It isn't because he's afraid; because, simply put, he isn't. It definitely isn't the money. If Yondu is right (and he is always right), the money (even split between the two of them) is enough to keep him comfortable for the rest of his short life. It could be that one time he'd almost gotten killed whilst caught in the crossfire of the last bounty job he'd taken. Could be. _Don't tell Yondu that,_ he reasons with himself. _He'll stop listening at 'afraid'._ He still has the scar at the base of his abdomen to remember just how it had all gone to hell.

"BOY, you promised. A Ravager does not—" Yondu sputters.

"-double back, yada yada yada, I know. Yondu, I know. Listen, man, I know getting killed prematurely is one of the occupational hazard—I say that lightly—of this damned occupation. But may-bee," he draws out the word, "Maybe I don't want to die prematurely. Maybe I'd rather steal stuff and make good profit from it AND if I'm lucky, not get blown to pieces in the process."

He can almost see the fight go out of the gruff Centaurian. The latter lets his shoulders drop and heaves a sigh. "Son, have you ever been blown to pieces when I've asked you to do stuff like this?"

"Still here, aren't I?"

"Exactly. Which is why you're the man for the job. Not to mention the Zen-whatever king would have my head if we perchance dee-clined him. I happen to very much like my head, Quill. Might not be as pretty as an angel's, but I like it. You think you got your life all ahead've ya, boy? Who's the Ravager what gave you said life?"

Peter greatly resents the corner Yondu has driven him into. He can't very well decline the man who singularly saved his life and kept him alive for the duration of two decades. He owes Yondu too much. This job adds to that pile of 'too much'. It's for that reason that he relents.

"Fine. After this, I _am_ out," he mutters, jabbing a finger at Yondu. He nudges the lever with his foot until it snaps into place. The mechanical door creaks open. "Now get the hell off my ship." The other man lifts his hands in mock surrender as he makes his way out. Just before he gets out of Peter's earshot, he laughingly remarks, "If you're still alive after this."

* * *

**A/N: Thoughts? Whatever's on your mind, tell me in a review! Reviews = faster updates + more chapters.****  
**

**Seriously though, what did you guys think? I did my best to write whatever I saw in my mind for these two, and I do hope I've gotten the idea across. You guys are the best readers, though, and I love ya. Read and review and stay fabulous! :D**

**p.s. There's a poll up on my page about the next stories I should write. Go check it out!**


	3. Made of Greed

**A/N: *blows kisses because wow you guys are amazing* Here's the third chapter of In His Veins. Peter's perspective this time. I will be alternating between his and Gamora's until the two of them finally cross paths. What I love about AU fics is how you can play around just a bit with a story's characters; ergo, how I've changed Peter slightly. As my lovely beta TerrorInYerTub (thanks again, Terra!) pointed out, Peter here is the same as he was in the beginning of the movie: self-serving, caring only for himself, etc. I do hope I've kept him in character in that respect. If I haven't, let me know! **

**P.s. sorry this one's short! I tried to make it as long as the last one. :s**

**Enjoy!**

_Enough money to keep me comfortable. _

This has been his mantra over the past few days, a conscious reminder of perhaps the only upside to this job. He's sitting in the cockpit now, reclining actually as he pulls a glowing blue screen down from up over his head. He taps the screen with his index finger. A transparent, three-dimensional map of nearby systems presents itself at the touch of his fingertip, and he leans forward to reach up toward the upper right corner of the map. He pinches a region of the map labeled 'Knowhere' between his thumb and forefinger for a few seconds before releasing it with the flick of his wrist. The graphic blinks out of existence before reappearing moments later with a detailed magnification of the severed head of a celestial being known as Knowhere.

The corner of his lips upturns in semblance of a smile as he sets course for the spot. He punches three buttons in quick succession and relaxes back into the chair as the ship operates on auto-pilot. About an hour into the flight, Yondu's face flashes in a red square signaling his pending call. Peter rolls his eyes and swipes 'decline' across the base of the square. He takes a shaky breath and lets it out slowly. He pops up the collar of his coat and lets his eyes slip closed just as he tries (and fails) to stifle a yawn. He hadn't realized then just how tired he is. Could it be from the shore leave he'd taken last month? He had arranged for it years back and when the time rolled around, he took his leave. He'd spent half a year on Terra, both to drop under the radar and maybe get readjusted to what his life used to be many years ago. In the end, it hadn't been all it cracked up to be and left Peter somewhat disappointed. Which is why he left again. And why his sleep cycle has been turned on its head.

_Yondu's visit couldn't have been more inconvenient_, he thinks. Calls from the Centaurian (abrupt, demanding calls usually concerning a debt that needed to be paid) were an annoyance. A visit from the man always (he underlines always) spells trouble; more so even now that he has a distinctly unappealing mission to pursue a dangerous (if the stuff he'd read on Zen-Whoberis held any truth) creature in hopes of a bounty. To be honest, Peter would rather render himself (by dishonorable means) comfortably oblivious to anything remotely interesting. He most certainly would not prefer to deal with an angry Zen-Whoberi female. _Had my fair share of a woman's fury_, he scoffs, shuddering as he remembers that particular species' lethality.

Fortunately, a soft beep from the dash distracts his attention, and thoughts of angry Zen-Whoberis melt away in an instant. He blinks his eyes open and sits up, lacing his fingers together and stretching his arms out in front of him as he also stretches his back. With a contented sigh, he swipes in a downward motion upon a screen at his left. The motion causes the screen to shift and display a message depicting a live camera feed of a crowded street. At the base of the feed, the word 'Knowhere' glowed softly. He shifts his gaze to the windows of the cockpit and looks out the same crowded street. "So it begins," he mutters under his breath, closing all screens and pulling a lever near his left foot. The hold's door opens with a slow, grinding hiss before snapping into place.

Peter holsters his guns, shoulders his knapsack, and heads out. He's scribbled an address and time on a paper now crumpled and shoved into his pocket. He keeps close guard on the small pickpockets wandering through the tight crowd begging alms and lays a hand on one of his guns just in case things get hairy. He passes by a vat of spinal fluid and nearly retches. The stench of the sitting liquid initiates his gag reflex, and he coughs, pinching his nostrils until he's a good distance away. He slips the crumpled paper out of his pocket, glances at it and the alleyway he had just stepped into. "Seven, six, five, two," he whispers, folding the paper this time and replacing it. 7652, the last four digits of the address.

He stops in front of the dilapidated metal structure bearing those last four digits and is about to check his watch when a meaty hand firmly slaps his shoulder blade, followed by Drax the Destroyer's hearty laugh. "Friend Quill!" the muscled man beams. Peter jumps at least a foot, initially, which only serves to make Drax laugh harder and earns him another rough whack. The burly blue alien means well by it; it's his version of a pat, but Peter knows his gentle touch will leave a mark. He resist the urge to rub the now bruising skin between his shoulder blades.

"Drax…"

"You needed my assistance, yes?" Drax has stepped back and folds his arms, keeping his blue gaze on Peter, who nods his affirmation.

"I'm trying to find a mark. Femme looks like this," Peter grunts and opens his coat to reach into his breastpocket. He removes a creased photo of a woman with green skin and long dark hair. He holds the photo between his index and middle finger and extends it to Drax. The latter takes the photo, peering at it closely. His bright blue eyes flit over the photo and absorb every detail. Peter can almost see the cogs turning in the larger man's head even as Drax looks up at him and shakes his head.

"Gamora. She is a princess, I believe. Daughter of the Zen-Whoberi king," Drax remarks thoughtfully. He shakes his head as he speaks, "I have not seen her in this location any time recent. I am sorry, Quill." The only visible sign of Peter's aggravation is the muscles in his hand tightening and clenching into a fist that remain firmly at his side.

"No, no problem, Drax," he grunts and tiredly runs a hand through his hair before scratching the stubble on his chin. "Thanks anyway. Let me know if you do see her. Hear she's with a raccoon and, er, a tree?"

Drax does not have his eyes on Peter as the other is speaking, and instead is watching movement several feet behind the Terran. When Peter finishes and he(after calling the man's name several times) starts snapping his fingers in the bigger man's face, Drax looks back at Peter. "Tree, you said? A Colossal Fauna, most likely. Does it look anything like that creature behind you?" At this, Peter's eyes widen and he turns on a heel, narrowing his gaze toward the direction in which Drax points. To his luck, he manages to catch a glimpse of a tall, rough creature slowly crossing his line of sight in the distance. Instinctively, he searches for any sign of the princess, but none comes. "No point in chasin' the tree. It's the girl I'm after," Peter clarifies, turning back around to Drax. He clears his throat. "I should probably be off. Dead end here." Drax promises to report any information concerning the trio in question and Peter mumbles his gratitude before head back the way he'd come.

He can't help but sigh as he steps back into the crowd. He's never liked crowds. Cloying, sweating, masses filled with people in rushes to get to places or meetings they are already late too. He shrugs it off and pushes through the mass of people, in the mean time searching for his ship. It's when he nearly reaches the _Milano_ that his errant foot catches something furry in his path and sends it flying a few feet away. The 'something' crashes in a crumpled and dazed ball, stunned for a few seconds. The ball of fur springs to life and jumps indignantly to its feet, brandishing a gun far too big for its own body.

"'Ey! 'ey schmuck," the creature—raccoon, Peter corrects himself after noticing the animal's ringed tail—the raccoon snarls. " Whirr you thenk you're goin'? I've got bisness with you, Fancypants."

"Rocket, do not draw attention to us," a feminine voice groans somewhere behind Peter. Before the man can so much as turn, least of all process that a freaking raccoon spoke to him, said raccoon cocks his gun (Peter recognizes the sharp click of it locking into position).

"Erryone knows you don't kick a man when he's down, humie," the raccoon slurs, struggling for a moment to uphold the weight of firearm in his hands, "That ain't fair."

In that moment, Peter realizes he is royally screwed.

**A/N: Thoughts? Whatever's on your mind, tell me in a review! They really keep me inspired! Next chapter might be a little of a wait; I'll see if I can post it next week. - Ella**


	4. It Rushes Red

**A/N: I'm baaack! With another chapter. Starting again with Gamora's perspective. The last chapter was Peter's, so he only sees Gamora and her boys from when they've been on Knowhere. Now you'll see how Gamora and they got to Knowhere. Once she meets Peter, I won't be switching perspectives. This chapter's is unbeta-ed, so if I've missed any spelling mistakes or stuff like that, eep I'm sorry and do let me know so I can fix it. :) Also, I will be writing a sequel to Barely Alive or Nearly Dead, soon. **

**Enjoy!**

Small, soft paws nudge persistently into her side, disturbing (or relieving) her from the chaos of her dreams. She turns away from the annoyance, mumbling something incoherent as she pulls her cloak (and makeshift blanket) tighter around her shivering form.

"Princess, we gotta go. Ain't got time to sleep in when you're on the run, honeypot. Trust us, we know." She tells herself it's the proximity of Rocket's voice to her hear that startles her. Yes, that's it. Nonetheless, she sits up and from there, draws herself up to full height. She runs her finger through her mussed black tresses and unsuccessfully fights a yawn as her skilled fingers slowly work the knotted tresses into a somewhat undone braid. When she finishes, she lifts her hands to her face and rubs the sleep from her eyes.

"How much time do we have?" Gamora asks the other two as she draws her cloak about herself, fastening it under her chin. The raccoon is occupied with rolling up his thin sleeping mat and stuffing it into the tattered bag slung across his back. He briefly checks the small firearm he'd kept by his side during the night and holds the gun up to his face, peering at it.

"What's that?" asks Rocket. A series of creaks and snaps follow as the Groot slowly unfolds from his sleeping position and remains sitting. He blinks his large eyes at the two of them and comes to a stand. The bark covering his body groans and gives soft intermittent creaks as he moves.

"I am Grooot," he declares, extending his arm toward the raccoon even as a skeletal finger points at the small mammal. Rocket flashes the tree a nonplussed pout and turns his small paws up in something of a put-off gesture. Gamora arches a brow, glancing between Rocket and Groot, as if to illustrate she has not caught their meaning.

"That's right, Groot. We do have just enough time to get to the ship and find an actually hiding spot," Rocket translates and gives the tree an affirmative nod. "Might as well get a move on before those damned Ravagers come after us."

"You understand him?" Gamora questions, no less puzzled than before. "I did not know he could speak."

"I! Am _Groot!_" The tree grumbles indignantly. Rocket's brows shoot up in surprise, and it takes everything in him not to laugh at Groot's last remark.

"The short version? Yes, I do, and yes, he does," Rocket remarks with a smirk in her direction. "He don't talk good like you and me. His vocabulary's limited to 'I' and 'am' and 'Groot'. Exclusively in that order. I've learned to recognize different inflections in his voice when he does speak."

"Remarkable," she comments, quietly pondering the raccoon's short explanation. "I shall prepare the ship for flight." She departs from them as Rocket smothers the dying embers of last night's fire underfoot and Groot plucks a stray leaf from up above his eyebrow. She strides down the rocky, downward-sloping path leading to where they had hidden her vessel and breathes a sigh of relief as her eyes make out the curved shape of said vessel. To her pleasure, it remains under the tarp and well-hidden from prying eyes.

Once she reaches the ship, she hops up just enough to reach the tarp as it drapes over the vessel's left wing and tugs on it. The coarse material catches on something and proves itself unrelenting. Only after two more hard tugs from Gamora does it release and come sliding off with a soft flutter. She then folds up the dusty tarp and pins it under her arm. With a quick tap to the intricate metal bracelet clasped around her wrist, the navy-painted metal panel directly in front of her rises with a low hiss and turns ninety degrees before snapping to the left and locking into place to reveal an entryway. She enters into the dimly lit belly of the small vessel, casting the tarp off into a pile of discarded junk, and makes her way to the cockpit. Just as she is settling herself into the chair and kickstarting the ship's start-up process, the accented whine of Rocket's voice and Groot's wooden grumbles reach her ears. The raccoon reaches her in a hop, skip and bound upon which he lands in the seat next to her and straps himself in. Groot proceeds at a slower pace, his wooden appendages groaning their distress as he seats himself behind Rocket and steadies himself by extending his limbs to either side of the ship.

"_I_ am Groot," the tree mumbles. Rocket dips his furry head in acknowledgement.

"So am I, Groot," he says in response. "Whenever you're ready, majesty." Gamora throws him a side-glance made of a pursed lip and slightly furrowed brows. Was that sarcasm? She curls long fingers around the lever between her knees and pulls until the vessel's engines start with a low but rising hum. As the ship gets off to a rocky start, pulling away from the moon's rocky terrain, she directs Rocket to activate a certain screen. With her free hand, she gestures to the panel above his head.

"Hit the button near your right," she instructs, then quickly clarifies at the mammal's disgruntled glare, "The blinking blue one nearest your right paw. That will activate the navigation." He gives no response save for hitting the blue button and waiting as a foot-long screen descends mechanically until it's right in front of his face. "You shall navigate as you are an outlaw with experience of well-planned escapes. I am not used to such things."

"Right. Seeing as a particular someone owes me a favor on Knowhere, maybe they can give us a hand," he remarks. "Knowhere it is, then." After a quiet (and admittedly embarrassed) question of "How do you get this to work?", he plugs in the appropriate coordinates.

* * *

"Rocket, do not draw attention to us," she groans, burying her face in her hands as she hears the drunken mammal letting his mouth run. She shakes her head, then, bringing her hands down to rest at her side. It's then that she looks up (and lets her hands hover precariously over the throwing knives at her hips) to see the Ravager standing between her and Rocket. _Ravager?_ Her eyes widen in alarm the moment they recognize the flame insignia on his left shoulder. The heart within her has jumped from a metaphorical zero to sixty, and the tension of the moment is tangible. As if to worsen things, Rocket cocks his gun and aims for the man's heart. The man himself is frozen in place. She notes the tension in his stance. He's just as afraid as they are. _As anyone would be were a gun pointed at them_, she thinks to herself.

"Erryone knows you don't kick a man when he's down, humie," Rocket slurs, struggling for a moment to uphold the weight of the firearm in his hands, "That ain't fair." His fingers hovers dangerously over the trigger, and the whole moment feels to Gamora like the deep breath taken before the plunge. Time seems to slow, almost, as Rocket closes around the trigger and the gunshot rips through the air. Unsuspecting passersby scatter in a multitude of directions as the firearm's startling shot rips loud in their ears. The man himself (Gamora is awed by this, though she refuses to admit. Least of all to him) swings his weight backward, dropping to ground to duck beneath the bullet's path. He hits the ground with a grunt, cursing. He reaches up and taps the flesh beneath his ear, which activates the formation of a protective metal mask. It completed covers his face and the back of his head, effectively protecting it from damage. She is about to wonder how he can see when he tilts his head back, still on the ground, and looks at her.

At first, the glowing red eyepieces of the mask frighten her, and she steps back, closing her grip on the knives at her disposal. Fear is the least of her worries when the man rolls back onto his feet and starts to approach her, hands half-raised (in what she can't hope to be surrender). As he's walking, she catches the glint off a gun holstered at his side and that does it. Her instinct kicks in, and she knows too well not to test the 'fight' reflex against this Ravager. Therefore, she takes flight.

"N-nah, come on. Don't _do_ that," he growls, his voice somewhat muffled by the mask. "Damnit, I've got to work for this one. Why can't ya be an easy catch?"

She runs as fast as she dares, slipping deftly between various people in the crowd even as she takes glances behind her. She's only just broken through the crowd when she takes a last glance to see if the Ravager is still in pursuit. He isn't, thankfully; so she thinks. She takes a sharp turn down a corner and crouches under a metal stairwell, retrieving her knives from their sheaths. The blades glisten and drip with a pale, translucent liquid. The substance isn't harmful to her species, thanks to a developed resistance. To other species, however (and to her knowledge), it serves as a powerful knockout agent. Smaller doses lead to a brief period of unconsciousness, while larger doses can place the victim in an indefinite coma.

Just then, another sound besides the rapid beating of her own heart reaches her eyes. Dirt crunches underfoot—under boot more precisely. Her whole body stiffens as she watches the Ravager (with a view only from his feet to his knees) walk into the alley in which she hides. His heavy leather boots are creased with age and covered with innumerable scuff marks. The mechanical additions riveted to the back of the ankles are also scuffed and in some places, dented. She closes her eyes then, taking in deep quiet breaths and wishing for the man to depart and leave her in her peace. After several moments during which he doesn't, she loses her patience. Adrenaline is racing through her veins like liquid fire, and it's adrenaline that pulls the gun from the holster nestled against her leg. With shaking hands, she curls her fingers around the grip and lays her index finger on the trigger. The Ravager's stopped just in front of her hiding place. Just as he's about to turn and take a step up, she fires.

The explosion of the gunshot blinds her briefly, and she coughs as the gunpowder fills her nostrils. She knows she's hit her target by the Ravager's cry of pain. He falls against the stairwell, leaning his weight so as to favor his now-injured foot. Blood leaks from the wound, dripping onto the dirt beneath him. Gamora takes that moment to slither out from under the stairwell, shoving the injured man aside in her haste. She doesn't get far before something behind her emits a mechanical click. Before she can turn to look, a luminescent red cord snaps and tightens around her ankles. She loses her balance and comes crashing to the ground, with time only to brace herself with arms folded in front of her face. The impact doesn't hurt as much as she expects; her arms suffer mere scrapes, but she'll survive. She withdraws one of the knives and works at cutting the cord.

It's then that she can see him pitifully making chase. His injured foot drags as he limps toward her, fumbling for his gun. She has only just destroyed the binding cord when he has reached her. She leaps to her feet and is more than ready with her knives when he comes (foolishly) within arms' reach. Her mind races, fueled by the constant stream of adrenaline in her veins. _Guns. Ravager shooting. Shoot to kill, must survive._ The thoughts in her own head seem louder than the words he's having trouble forming now.

"I'm s'posed to bring you back in one piece," he pants and taps the mask again. If she were in any other situation, she might've admired the technology of the disassembling mask. "Jesuschristthathurts!" He exclaims, his features contorting in momentary pain as he accidentally puts weight on his injured leg.

"I have no wish to be brought back," she snaps. "Not in any pieces." For some peculiar reason, the man laughs at her remark, and when he catches her deathly glare, continues laughing. Whatever the reason, it infuriates her. She's already reaching behind her back for the deadliest weapon at her disposal.

"That's not…Sweetheart, it's a metaphor," he remarks, laughter no longer evident in his expression. It's then that she disengages the weapon and flicks it downward with her wrist, causing the larger sharpened end to elongate into a sword.

"Here is your metaphor!" she hisses, pouring her rage into the last word that falls from her lips. His eyes widen when he grasps her meaning.

"Whoa! That is def not what it means, sister!" is all he has time to get out before she attacks. She swings the sword in an arc in front of her face before arcing it back down and reaching with her sword arm to close the distance. The razor edge of the blade slices a warning cut into his left shoulder, and it take a jerk from her to withdraw the barbed edge and return the sword to its resting position. A cry and a string of anguished curses pours from his lips as he recoils, cradling the injured limb. "Drax!" he grounds out, moments before the burly blue alien rounds the corner and locks the Gamora in his hold. She screeches in displeasure, digging her nails into his arms deep enough to draw blood, but he does not relent. "What're you waiting for? Put her under!" Peter snaps. Drax watches Peter with a neutral expression, the only sign of his understanding being the curious quirk of his eyebrows at the Terran's odd verbiage. His eyes narrow in suspicion as he slowly clamps a meaty fist around Gamora's neck and places her on the ground, literally under himself. "No…just. God, what is it with you people and freaking metaphors?!" Peter howls. "Knock her out, Drax. Fist to the head."

"Why did you not say that to begin with, Quill?" Drax mumbles. He delivers a sharp blow to the princess' head with his balled fist.

Darkness shrouds everything within her quickly fading sight, and after that, she knows no more.

**A/N: ****Thoughts? Whatever's on your mind, tell me in a review!**


End file.
